i was born in a thunderstorm
by Glockenspielium
Summary: she's been alone for a very long time, and she's survived - he's got a one way ticket to whatever's going to hurt the most - and they've forgotten all about her - (post season three episode one)
1. Simmons

_I was born in a thunderstorm  
_ _I grew up overnight_

In a way, she has to be (should be) grateful for the constant, thrumming danger, waiting around any corner, tracing her every step, watching from high up on the rocky peaks. If it wasn't for the seemingly endless adrenaline surging through her veins, pushing her on, fuelling her weary muscles, pressing her eyes open to another freezing, grey day; she might have gone mad by now.

That's one of the options she presents to herself, in the first few days, when she's still growing accustomed to the way things are now. Some kind of psychotic disorder, she reasons- perhaps drug induced, or even born of traumatic experiences; she's certainly had plenty of those. Psychosis, or perhaps an artificial stimulation, simulated by external waves, trialling her mind, testing her? When she was younger and could devour books in nights and libraries in weeks, her parents might have told her (with a gentle sigh) to remember to live in the real world, where people didn't visit alien planets, or travel through time. It was easy for them to say that, they were parents- books had taught her that parents were either evil, disinterested enough to not notice their children, or dead. Seeing as her own parents didn't fit any of those categories, she assumed that she'd not yet come across a story to match her own, never thought to consider that such a tale had hardly been conceived. But she can still take something from the hours spent arched over the neatly printed pages, eyes straining in the din light, trying not to wake her family but unable to leave her favourite characters alone in their plight, the next page only a curl of the finger away.

In her stories, it was always essential to find food and water. There's not much to eat around, even taking into account her ignorance of the local wildlife and what might be toxic to ingest. It's a bare and barren world she's been banished to, as if the miraculous presence of a compatible atmosphere with earth is the height of all similarities. She tries the smallest sample of anything she comes across that seems innocuous, and if there are no adverse symptoms, gathers up the berries or plump leaves, fastening them to her cardigan and slinging it across her chest. It's easier to run that way.

One sleeve is torn off the first night that she actually gets some sleep. When the nightmares come, she has no hope of distinguishing them from her daily terrors, and after waking up to the shrill siren of her own screams, with barely enough time to clamber upwards and press onwards through the exhaustion to find another safe place to rest- she ties a large knot in the centre and stuffs it between her lips every night. Though it's difficult to rest with the bow at the back of her head, and she wakes with a dry mouth and an aching throat, it's safer.

When her knee is slashed open on the jagged rocks that greet her fall, she tears off the other sleeve and divides it into several long strips, changing the make-shift bandage every few days to reduce the chance of infection, storing the old strips to wash out the blood and pus when she's lucky enough to chance upon running water, and then eventually to use when she starts menstruating and there's no chance of popping over to the chemist to pick up some tampons. They never spoke about that in her novels.

And there were a few days where she couldn't find water, not long enough to kill her, but enough for her to consider the madness of turning around and going back along her tracks, trying to evade the creatures, as if she's never tried that before, as if she doesn't know precisely how terrible an idea that would be. When she eventually does find it (it in this case being a mere trickle, making it's way down a dark flat stone) it's hard to stop the tears from escaping from the corners of her eyes, but Jemma has always been one to learn from past experiences, and she cannot be sure whether they can track all body fluids (or just blood), and so she doesn't.

It's always been a matter of determination for Jemma. If she mustn't make a noise, she won't, if she needs to have the readings analysed by the next morning, they will be. Of course, sometimes things are out of her control, but she can account for those things and make adjustments. Usually. (She hadn't accounted for the so-far-as-she-knew benign giant stone swallowing her up and sending her to the other side of the galaxy, but surely that's an acceptable exception). Given everything she's encountered, she's hardly unrealistic in her self-assurance. It might be more accurate would be to say that she's disinclined to concede defeat when the means to succeed lay obtainable within her own hands.

So if it's altogether too hard to go on if she let's herself think of home, think of him; she won't.

There's rarely anything that happens utterly devoid of reason. That's her thinking, after all these years, it's something she's generally believed. And no, that doesn't mean that she's cutting the horoscope out of the magazine's in the dentist waiting room, but what she's seen, what's she's measured and read and watched, is that even in the most random findings, there are patterns, there is balance. And if something sent her here, then there's something that can send her back.

And so she runs. She hides and she digs for water. She finds shelter in caves and sleeps where she can. She ignores the deep ache in her belly that can't be sated, the way her arms are thinner than arms should be, and stronger than hers have ever been. She's grateful for the sturdy boots she'd worn every day in the labs and wishes she'd been the type to carry a knife at all times (or even just a pair of scissors). She shivers the night away, no covers or comfort, and she burns her way across the terrain with every waking moment she has left.

And if it's altogether too hard to imagine that anyone could find her here, she's going to have to find her own way home.

 _I was born in a thunderstorm_  
 _I grew up overnight_  
 _I played alone_  
 _I'm playing on my own_  
 _I survived_


	2. Fitz

_I had a one way ticket to a place where all the demons go_  
 _Where the wind don't change_  
 _And nothing in the ground can ever grow_

"How about in exchange for your life?"

There's a subtle gesture sent over his shoulder, and Fitz turns just in time to catch the fist straight across his cheek, sending him spinning back forwards, vision blurring for a second. As he straightens up, a knife appears at his chest with an ominous click, and it's pathetically obvious that they're turning up the charm, just for him.

The blood that's pooled up in the back of his throat is spat down at his feet, and he brings his gaze back up to the man in front of him. He's done his research, learnt as much as he could about the likelihood of how this transaction might go down. This is a man who (usually) gets his way.

"No deal."

"A man with nothing to lose-" He has all the signs of being at the start of a self-important rant, so Fitz cuts him off. His time is precious.

"Okay listen, because I'm only going to say this once." He's speaking loud and clear, and he knows he has their full attention. "I've already lost a friend, and it may sound strange, but to get her back I need to understand the properties of an ancient monolith."

It sounds more than strange, to him, to hear those words, he's lost a friend- how _little_ that makes of her (of them, of all the years), how easily how insignificant she can become. But it's important to stay on task.

"Now I've learnt it was buried in the Ukattar, after being dragged around the earth for a few hundred years, and originally found where there were artefacts, mostly worthless, except one." This had been a glorious, unexpected find, in the wee hours of the morning, far too early for anyone else to be there as he span in his chair (entirely our of habit) to share his discovery with the familiar face that should have been beside him.

"A scroll casing over a thousand years old. The casing holds a parchment, which reportedly describes exactly what this monolith is, which is what I wanna know." It's hard to keep a clear head, the adrenaline thickening each words as it settles on his tongue, adrenaline coursing down his arms. "Now I tracked the scroll casing, not easy, through history, to Mosul Museum, in Iraq. But it was taken by your extremist buddies when they ransacked the place this year, now I'm ninety percent sure its in this room-"

There's the slightest flinch, almost unnoticeable, of his left shoulder, posterior abduction of the glenohumeral joint (see, he was listening in those anatomy tutorials) behind him towards the shelving that Fitz has got his gaze trained upon-

 _Gotcha_.

"So you can either hand it over in exchange for what's in there, or you could spill my guts in the sand and use the briefcase as a booster seat."

The words pour from his mouth, just as he's rehearsed them, no hint of a stutter (the English version always came out more smoothly than in Arabic). He can't stop the heat, it's intoxicating.

"It's totally your call."

Silence falls between them, the beads of sweat on the back of his neck trickling slowly in a certain path towards the dusty floor.

This is it, the point where most trainee specialists fail or succeed. He's seen some of the old examination footage, seen their failures, studied their errors. In order to sell a play, you have to convince the other person beyond a fair degree of doubt that you are telling the truth- there's no good reason for them to trust him, but there's a million reasons to have him killed in an instant, or any of the minutes earlier (but he's stayed alive) and here he is. It's all in how well you sell the story.

With trainees, they are taught to become their character, to imagine their family, their childhood, their first kiss- and as this imaginary person, to construct something real. That way they can build fear and instinct and desperation based on how this character would react to the situation, and those layers of complex details should be enough to make it feel real.

He's lucky, in a way. His pulse is racing, his palms are wet, his chest aches. He doesn't have to pretend.

That's what no one seems to understand, not Bobbi standing in _her_ place beside him in the lab, not Hunter with his endless supply of beers and bad advice, not Mac with his steady silence, not Skye with her soft words and gentler hugs- not even Coulson, looking right through his heart and trying desperately to salvage the remains.

One word and they'll shoot him dead without a moment of hesitation. Everyone else in the room knows it too.

He never actually told Bobbi where he was. She could probably track it down from the call record, she's more clever than most people seem to notice, even those working beside her, give her credit for. But by the time she realised he wasn't contactable, and they found the coordinates, flew across the sea- his body would be long gone.

And he can't find it in himself to care.

(And maybe if she came back somehow, somewhere, they could tell her that he went in search of her, never giving up, never listening to the whispers over coffee of mad Fitz and his fruitless quest, and they'd know he'd been right along and she'd know he'd never given up and she'd cry, but who would hold her then?)

The time stretches on and on between them, a battle of wits and determination that he has to win. That he will win.

He doesn't have to pretend.

 _I had a one way ticket to a place where all the demons go_  
 _Where the wind don't change_  
 _And nothing in the ground can ever grow_  
 _No hope, just lies_  
 _And you're taught to cry in your pillow_  
 _But I survived_


	3. May

_I found solace in the strangest place_  
 _Way in the back of my mind_

As she wakes, she immediately takes charge of her respiratory rate- in for three long counts, and out for another three, ensuring adequate oxygenation for any imminent threat. She does this twice before she opens her eyes. It's not as if she expects anything to have changed. She would have woken the instant someone entered her room, least of all touched or moved her. As usual, she is alone, in the dark, bound in place by her ankles, waist, wrists, neck; strung up high on the wall where they leave her. As usual, she is unable to run.

Given the time it takes them to bring her food, she should have enough space to take stock of her current damage. Starting at the feet- three broken toes, only one nail remaining on the right, extensive bruising and swelling but fortunately no broken ankle bones or (worse) torn tendons. Not so lucky with the knees- a meniscal and posterior cruitiate ligament tear, fractured patella and a particularly nasty gash extending from the inside of her right calf, curving up along her thigh to finish at the hip, finally finished bleeding but beginning to ooze slightly and desperately in need of cleaning and antibiotics.

It was never their intention to starve her, if the eagerness to feed her once she'd finally passed out from hypoglycaemia is anything to go by. More likely they had been naïve to the functioning of the human metabolism, or forgotten it was not the same as theirs, whatever that might be. If they were intending to starve her, it seems unlikely that they would have started feeding her daily, given that she's told them nothing so far. But every technique, every method she has studied and learnt first hand has only ever applied to human captors (and the occasional Asgardian). She's truly out of her depth on this one.

One kidney is most likely no longer functioning fully, given the beating she received on that side of her back, and the blood that stained her urine for the days after. The long whip left welts and gashes along her back that still haven't healed over, and she winces as they sting against the jagged rock of the wall behind her, rousing her from any second of cherished sleep she might catch, and punctuating her every waking moment.

They finally arrive, complete with the usual sack of thickened, syrupy sustenance with a taste which she's grown bizarrely fond of, given that she's barely touched any other food for weeks and weeks on end. She still remembers what it felt like to actually bite and chew into food, to feel the texture of bread between her lips, to have the crisp skin of an apple give way to her teeth- she might miss the action of eating more than anything else. They pour the feed down her throat with hardly enough time to catch a breath, not a moment spared to check whether or not she is able to swallow the strange substance. By now, she can catch almost the entire bag as it's emptied onto her, not wanting to waste any precious calories to the grimy floor below.

Her left humorous has mostly healed, but she would have to be allowed a full range of moment to accurately test the extent of any permanent damage, and whether she should attempt to break it again, for increased accuracy of reset. The previously fractured ribs are healing well (once again), which means they must be due for re-fracturing soon, if their past actions are to be repeated. Her face is most likely a bloodied mess, an accumulation of specifically targeted, sensitive nerves and a long, curved knife. She imagines her left ear will be damaged permanently, but again, difficult to assess given the situation.

Suffice to say, they have been nothing if not thorough.

She's left alone again, a brief respite, but not with the coy psychological intent of many of her previous captors (which have accumulated over the years). Humans might think to play games, let her think that she won't be touched today, that they've come to appreciate some unknown aspect of their search previously unknown to them, and today she is no longer their plaything; only in hope of inflicting duplicitous pain in the form of the malicious team of physical trauma and mental anguish- but these creatures are different. They are kind, in so much as the arms that break yours have a capacity to be kind, and they do not lie.

(Of all the names that have been thrown her way, no one has yet seen fit to label Melinda May a fool.)

There isn't a gap in their clockwork timetabling, no fallible egotism or gentle eyes for her to tease out into an exit. Not knowing where on earth (she hopes) she might be has never stopped her before, but it stands to point that this is most certainly the very worst situation she has found herself in to date. Her injuries are extensive and relentless, there is no place for subterfuge or superficiality here. There is the possibility that he- that they are looking for her, but after all this time, with not even a sign from her to guide their path, she knows that slowly their hope would fade, their eyes grow weary and their tenuous grasp less firm; it's the same with every cold case to have passed across her desk. Even the best intentions must burn out, eventually.

Or perhaps, they have not even thought to look.

Now, they bring in the equipment, lining up the day's events in a messy queue, efficiently terrifying. There's two of them next to the door, two to move her, chain her down, adjust the tools- technicians. And then there's the one who's coming to face her now, blue muscles rippling, dark eyes glinting. She doesn't have to speak Kree to know how very much he enjoys his job.

A few people (most people) have alluded to a 'zen warrior' place that she must go to during difficult battles or great pain. Whether it's derived from some form of internalised racism or a misunderstanding of the true possible extent of intentional injury, it has always been a small frustration to think that they imagine her somehow absent to her surroundings, her situation, her pain. It's inescapable, inexplicably overwhelming, and it takes any residual mental effort she can summon to analyse her situation and process it effectively, every morning, just to keep going. It would not do to waste energy towards creating some equivocal external image of her suffering. Particularly given that there is no one who would care about her present to see it.

But even still-

One of the Kree guarding the door favours his right side (slightly) and the other is top heavy. Based on her shaky astrological skills and the stars she's been able to catch through the small window at the top of the wall, they're still on earth, in the southern hemisphere probably. Their understanding of how much pain she can tolerate is collected from her feeding patterns and ability to stay silent, both of which are still at her command, as of yet.

As they begin to take her down from the wall again, she imagines a small smile settling across her lips (if she were in the mood to level the playing field, she might have even let the smile show, but by this stage, she needs all the points on her side that she can get). She slept more than two hours last night and her ribs are healing. Her mind is clear and she can still form two solid fists.

 _It's not over yet._  
 _I found solace in the strangest place_  
 _Way in the back of my mind_  
 _I saw my life in a stranger's face_  
 _And it was mine_


End file.
